The House Above the River (10 page)

Henry was suitably upset.

“Some stupid louts from the village, I expect,” he said, angrily. “Probably playing around and knocked over the notice and stuck it up again without bothering to look where they put it.”

“I suppose they'd think it was quite potty to need a notice at all,” suggested Phillipa. “They must all know from childhood exactly where the quicksands are likely to be.”

“Henry has known it from childhood,” said Miriam, softly.

There was an awkward pause. Then Tony said, looking at her sternly, “Your headache must have prevented
you
from noticing the sign had been moved.”

“Oh, I never go anywhere near it,” she answered, easily.

“That's a lie,” whispered Susan, under her breath.

“Headache?” asked Henry. His face showed real concern.

“We seem to have been the only people to enjoy your beach,” said Phillipa.

“A mixed enjoyment,” Susan added.

“Oh, I was down there before any of you,” said Henry, lightly. “I always have a walk before breakfast. Actually, it was the other side of the creek I visited today. The village side of it.”

“So you wouldn't see your notice at that distance? Or would you?”

“Unfortunately I didn't, did I?” said Henry.

Again there was silence. Then they all went indoors.

It now seemed clear to the party from
Shuna
that they must get away from the château as soon as they could. The atmosphere in the house had become unbearable, weighed down as it was with suspicion and terror. No one was taking any steps to clear, up the growing mystery. Instead Henry retreated more and more from public view and Miriam was working herself into an even wilder state of emotional tension than ever before.

The second near-accident, the second trap, as she loudly proclaimed it, was directed at her, and at her alone. She reached this conclusion half-way through luncheon, announcing it with the maximum of dramatic effect, to the great embarrassment of her hearers.

Suddenly putting down her knife and fork she said, in a low tense voice, “I have escaped twice, haven't I? I can't expect to escape a third time. How do I know I am not being poisoned at this very minute?”

Henry gave a short, unpleasant laugh.

“If you are, so are the rest of us.”

Phillipa made an effort to check the ridiculous scene.

“I don't know why you think the traps, as you call them, were meant for you. They seem to me to have been laid pretty indiscriminately. Probably by village louts, as Henry suggests. Anyone might have fallen into either of them.”

Giles took this up.

“Exactly,” he said. “As it happened, Susan sprang the first, and Tony the second.”

Miriam got up slowly, pushing her, plate away.

“I feel ill,” she said, faintly. “I think I am poisoned.”

In spite of themselves, the others watched her with feelings of chill alarm. Her excessive fear swept from her to them all blotting out reason and even common sense. She looked ill; she must be ill for her face to take on that greyish tinge. Her dark eyes, fixed on Henry, at the head of the table, were wild with despair and a vision of death. She seemed to be disintegrating before their eyes.

Giles and Tony started up: Susan was already on her feet. They reached her as she fell, and caught her, and the two men carried her to her room.

Left alone with Henry, who had not moved from his seat, Phillipa said, in a shocked voice, “Aren't you even going to call a doctor?”

That roused him. He got up with a violent movement, nearly knocking over his chair.

“Yes, I will do the correct thing,” he said, harshly. “I will call the doctor, and when he comes the hysterical fit will be over, as usual, and he will be told it was my fault, as usual. She turns this house into a bedlam, but it is my fault! Always my fault! I am responsible.
I
have created the fantasy in which she lives.”

He brought his fist down on the table, making the dishes rattle.

“This is not all imagined,” said Phillipa, steadily. “The uncovered hole was real, and the moved warning post. They were real, and dangerous; deadly dangerous. How do you really explain those things? I should like to know what you are doing to find the answers? And the culprits? My husband was very nearly caught by the sand, you know.”

His eyes went blank. He picked up his dinner napkin to wipe his mouth.

“Our village boys,” he muttered. “Primitive. Peasant minds, still.”

His gaze went aimlessly round the room.

“I'm very sorry,” he mumbled on. “Very unfortunate. Not used to visitors. My wife, I mean. Make her worse. And Giles turning up. So extraordinary. I apologise. Will you excuse me. The doctor …”

He went out of the room, leaving Phillipa, astonished, alone at the table.

“They're both crackers,” she announced a little later.

Giles and Tony had joined her in the Marshalls' bedroom. They nodded gloomily.

“I think we ought to leave here at once,” she went on.

“So do I,” Tony agreed. “I'd feel a darned sight safer with the sea under me than the less than solid earth of this peculiar spot. Makes you wonder what'll give way next.”

“Frankly, I'd have gone already, if it hadn't been for Susan,” said Giles, boldly.

“She's only staying the summer, isn't she?”

“I know, Pip. She's only got another month here. Thank God, she won't be able to stay longer than that, because her parents will be arriving home and she has to get the house open for them.”

“You'll be able to get in touch then, won't you?”

“That's not the point,” Giles turned away from them. “I'd like to get her out of this, now. I don't understand what goes on here. I don't like it. Why don't they have a doctor for Miriam?”

“Henry said he would call her doctor. That was before he went all peculiar, himself.”

“She needs a doctor and a proper nurse. Then Susan would be free to leave. It isn't as if they needed help in the house. This isn't England. Francine has plenty of domestic help, and she runs that side damned efficiently.”

Phillipa understood what he was trying to say.

“You want to stay until the doctor has been? Is that it? And try to persuade Susan to leave?”

He nodded.

“I'd like to take her with us.”

“On
Shuna
, old boy?” asked Tony, in surprise.

“Why not? For a few days, to let things simmer down here. Or come to a head, whichever happens. We've lost four days, but we still have time, if the weather picks up, to see a bit more of this coast before we start back.”

“We've no objection, have we, Tony?” Phillipa urged.

“On the contrary.”

“Then I suggest we take our gear back to the boat this afternoon, and go off on the morning tide. That'll give us time to keep an eye on developments here, and get Susan to make up her mind.”

He went to his room, determined to put his plan into action at once. It did not take long to pack the few clothes he had brought ashore. But when his bag was filled, he went across to the window, to stand there, staring out at the imprisoning trees.

He heard the door of the room open. Thinking it was Tony come to tell him he was ready to go down to the boat, he did not move, only said, “If I owned this place, the first thing I'd do would be to clear a proper space round the house.”

He heard Francine's voice behind him say, “Monsieur!” and swung round to face her.

“If you please, Monsieur, Madame wishes to speak to you.”

“But she's ill,” he cried, exasperated by this demand. “Hasn't the doctor been? Oughtn't she to be kept very quiet?”

“Monsieur Henri telephoned to the doctor, and he will come. But Madame says she will not see him, because she is not ill.”

“That's ridiculous! She must see him. I think she is very ill.”

“She is not ill, monsieur. It is not illness. It is despair.”

He was outraged. He snapped out, “Nonsense!” and picking up his bag, made for the door. As he, reached it, Francine stood aside. There was a baffled look in her eyes, and she was breathing heavily.

“I implore you, monsieur,” she said, and her restraint and evident sincerity moved him. He paused, looking intently at her.

“Are you sure this is not just another bout of hysteria?” he asked. He used that all-embracing term “
Crise des nerfs
”, which can cover anything from a fit of temper to a mental breakdown.

“I swear it is not,” she answered. “On the contrary, it is the last appeal of a breaking heart.”

The extravagance of this statement restored all of Giles's former hostility. But he felt committed.

“Very well,” he said. “I will speak to her. I had intended to send her a message to say goodbye and thank you. But I will see her for a few minutes instead.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” said Francine, “and God bless you.” She added, in a low voice, so that he only just heard, “Be kind to her, monsieur. She loves you.”

Giles strode away, these outrageous words ringing in his ears, stirring up memories that he knew no longer had power to move him, but which he still feared.

He came to Miriam's room, knocked, and went in.

She was not in bed, but was lying on a sofa drawn up near the window. She had taken off her beach clothes and was wearing a dressing-gown of transparent nylon and lace, through which he saw clearly her brown skin and scanty underclothes.

“You have come!” she said, in her most theatrical manner. “Thank God!”

He was sickened by the whole stupid, seedy business, the false emptiness of the situation, his own unwilling participation.

“Look here, Miriam,” he said. “You've got to understand things as they really are. For heaven's sake stop this sordid play-acting. There is no point in it, and you are making yourself ill.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She turned her head away.

“If
you
don't believe me, then there is no hope,” she said. “No possible chance to escape. I am doomed.”

In spite of the extravagant language, in spite of his conviction that her fears were groundless, he felt a pang of dread catch at his own heart. After all, strange things
had
happened. Things for which he had no explanation. And Henry was an odd character. A bit sinister, if you liked to see him that way.

“But I don't see
why
!” he cried, answering his own unspoken question.

Miriam turned. The tears were dried; instead her eyes shone with a feverish brightness.

“You don't believe what I told you, Giles, do you? You think it is unbelievable that Henry would want to get rid of me? You are wrong. He is very plausible. He pretends to be so respectable, so dull. But he has a secret life. Why else should he go away so often, without explanation, without leaving an address?”

“Does he do that?”

“He does. He simply tells me he is going away. For a fortnight. For three weeks. It varies. He says he is going, but I never know if he will come back.”

“But he does come back?”

“So far he has come back.”

“I don't see that that sort of behaviour can be made to prove he wants to get rid of you—by violence. It would tend to suggest he might some day simply walk out on you.”

She looked at him so sorrowfully that he was ashamed of what he had said.

“You are very hard, Giles. You have never forgiven me.”

“Rubbish!”

“I was wrong to break our engagement, Giles. I have so often repented it, since. But I was afraid of being poor, and you had very little money then, hadn't you? Not like now.”

The poor fool, he thought, does she really think this is the sort of talk to move me?

“Henry was so romantic at that time, Giles. The thought of the château, the people all devoted to him. And he took me about to such lovely places, where I had never been with you.”

She saw his face harden, and his eyes grow flinty. She could not understand what she had done. She had quite forgotten the intermediate George, who made a nonsense of these wistful explanations.

“I really came in to see you to say goodbye and thank you for having us here,” Giles said, awkwardly, afraid of a fresh outburst of tears or protests.

But Miriam indulged in neither. She put out a hand and laid it simply in his. He let his fingers close on it, suddenly wrung by pity for her.

“Will you kiss me goodbye, Giles?” she asked. “I was going to ask you to take me with you, but I see that it would be no good. You would refuse.”

He leaned over her, and touched her cheek, feeling nothing. Susan, he rejoiced in his heart, Susan darling, I'm free of her at last.

“Why don't you go to England for a bit and see some of your old friends?” he said, stroking her hair, and speaking to her as if she were a child.

“I have no friends,” she answered.

He straightened up and she took her hand away. She seemed to have retreated into some far corner of her being.

“I should like to say goodbye to the others,” she said, with cold dignity.

“You're not well. I'll say it for you.”

“I'm perfectly well. I'll join you in the hall in five minutes.”

He could do nothing to prevent this, so he went away to find the Marshalls and tell them what Miriam intended.

They looked for Henry downstairs, but were told he had gone down to the creek to attend to the warning notice.

While they were waiting for Miriam, Susan came into the hall. Giles drew her to one side.

“We are taking our gear back on board,” he said, “and going off tomorrow, early. I must see you before then.”

“Does Miriam know?”

“She knows. She is coming down to the stage with us now.”

“But …”

“I know. Darling, I must see you.”